


The Doctor Is In

by MoonRiver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Broken Bones, Doctor John, Friendship, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, John Watson is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, References to Drugs, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1738655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonRiver/pseuds/MoonRiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You always know exactly what to do,” Sherlock sighed. “Where would I be without my doctor?”<br/>“Lying in a bunch of rubble with a skeleton on top of you, that’s where.”</p><p>Four times Sherlock was grateful his best friend was a doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor Is In

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my fanfic folder. Apparently I wrote this while I had the flu and never published it. I was probably so out of it I just forgot about it. So here you go! Some nice Johnlock friendship to brighten up your week.

I. Migraine

“I know it sounds bad, but I swear, I was at work!”

Beside Sherlock, Lestrade let out a bark of laughter and nearly launched himself across the table at the suspect as he exclaimed:

“And yet no one seems to recall seeing you there! You weren’t on the clock, and there weren’t even signs you had done any work!”

The suspect ran his hand over his unkempt, graying, hair as Sherlock messaged his temples. The _noise_! Didn’t they realise how loud they were being?

“I was at work!” The suspect spat.

He smoothed the sides of his cheap, wrinkled suit, as though making a point. Sherlock’s hands began to shake as he suddenly found the obvious signs: the suit, his hair, the tie was the same as yesterday, his shoes weren’t polished.

“I have all day!” Lestrade announced. A smug grin crossed the D.I.’s face as he leaned back in his chair. “I once kept a suspect in here for fifteen hours until he finally cracked.”

The businessman turned suspected murderer’s eyes lit up. His breathing became unsteady- as did Sherlock’s.

_My head might literally explode if this doesn’t end soon._

The pounding had been constant since last night, and as if that wasn’t bad enough every creak of a chair, every sparkle of sunlight from the tiny window above them, sent shocks of pain through his body.

He needed relief. He needed sleep. And darkness. And silence.

“I told you-!”

“For God’s sake Lestrade, he’s innocent!” Sherlock shouted. He jumped to his feet and swirled around, rounding on the detective. “If you would just listen to someone for a change maybe you would notice.”

Lestrade’s mouth fell open in disgust as the suspect sank into his seat, heaving out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, like when I listened to you two hours ago when you begged me to bring him in and let you interrogate him?” Lestrade snapped.

“The man’s obviously sleeping in his office. His suit, his tie, his hair- it’s all so obvious now. He didn’t do it. He’s just a bit down on his luck, probably because of a string of bad investments. Let him go and bring the landlord in again.”

He had no regrets as he left Lestrade fuming in the interrogation room. Slamming the door behind him, he grabbed John and began marching toward the exit.

“What the hell was that all about?” John demanded. His flatmate had watched the interrogation from behind the mirror, but clearly he was just as lost as Lestrade. “Just two hours ago you were insisting he was the one.”

“That was two hours ago!” Sherlock shot. Didn’t anyone pay attention around here?

As they burst out onto the front steps of the Yard, Sherlock nearly fell over. John caught him just in time, and even with his arm thrown over his eyes Sherlock knew he was frowning at him with that _Doctor’s Face_ of his. The consulting detective finally gave up, collapsing onto the steps with his head hanging to his knees. John knelt down beside him; Sherlock stirred when he felt his hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” John asked. “You seem a bit off your game.”

“Fine,” Sherlock lied. He looked up, blinking into the ray of sunlight shimmering down on them. “Why is it so bright out today?”

Blinking, John looked up at the sky in confusion.

“Sherlock, it’s perfectly overcast.”

Oh. So he was just going crazy then. That was nice to know.

 _John’s a doctor. Just tell him your head hurts_. His subconscious mind had been prodding him to confess his pain all day, but he refused to be brought down by a simple headache.

“Look at me,” John instructed. Sherlock winced as he did as he was told. The traffic noise from the street seemed to be amplified twice as much as normal, powerful enough to make him nauseous. “You have a migraine, don’t you?”

Sherlock stopped, and John grinned.

“I…I don’t get migraines,” Sherlock stammered.

“So?” John shrugged. “I used to see people all the time who go through the first part of their lives with virtually no headache troubles. Then they get into their thirties and forties and get migraines. You’re obviously sensitive to light and sound. Any nausea?”

Nodding, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his abdomen, to illustrate his pain.

“Come on,” John said, helping him get to his feet. “We’re going back to the flat. I’ll get you some meds and you’re going to bed. The best thing you can do for a migraine is sleep.”

“But I’m on a-"

John clamped his hand down over his mouth before he could finish.

“You’re going to go home, turn off all the lights, go to bed, and stop torturing yourself. Alright?”

Sherlock nodded, and John finally let him go.

Later that evening his eyes fluttered opened to sheer darkness. Sherlock carefully lifted himself up from the pillows to test his strength…

Nope, still miserable.

As he collapsed back on the mattress he looked over to the bedside table and noticed a tiny pill sitting on top of a note.

_Take ONE of these. Only ONE. Yes, I hid the rest. Get some sleep. Feel better soon._

A smile fell across his face as he settled back into bed.

_Note to self: offer to buy the milk next time._

He managed to send a quick text before even the tiny light emitting from the screen became too much.

_Thank you. I owe you._

II. Drowning

“Sherlock, no!”

The last thing he remembered was John’s hand grabbing for his, but their fingers brushed together a moment too late. Sherlock was falling, tumbling, going down head first into the icy water. Everything was black, and thick, and freezing. He had never felt so claustrophobic in his life. He just kept falling. He couldn’t stop. His vision was fading.

_I know how to swim! Why can’t I swim?_

Arms flailing about, he tried to fight his way to the surface, but he just kept sinking…until a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist.

That was the last thing he remembered before passing out.

When he came to, John and what seemed like all of Lestrade’s division were leaning over him.

“Give him some space!” John barked.

Slowly, Sherlock tried sitting up, only to have a half a dozen people rush at him when he began to fall back.

“Easy,” the doctor instructed.

Sherlock opened his mouth and ended up coughing up water. The sounds of his hacking coughs filled the police boat; John placed one hand at the small of his back and another on his shoulder.

“Take it easy,” John said quietly. “Just breathe. It’s okay. You’re doing fine.”

He didn’t feel fine. His chest was too tight, and it felt like there was so much pressure in his head that it might pop. He was drenched from head to toe, and- so was John.

He stopped.

John’s soaked hair was plastered to his head; his jumper and trousers were dripping. Someone placed a blanket over them both, and John offered him a sympathetic smile as he realised what happened.

“John,” he coughed. “You saved my life!”

“Don’t try to talk,” John said, holding up a hand. “Just rest. We’re heading back to land and then to a hospital.”

He shook his head, but John was quick to protest.

“Yes, hospital! You blacked out, Sherlock. You nearly drowned.”

“John, you-"

“Stop trying to talk!” John whispered. The doctor’s own voice was going hoarse. The two of them sat with their backs against the walls of the ship, breathing heavily and drinking in the warm daylight.

And John’s hand never left his shoulder.

When they got home neither hesitated to change into warm clothing. Together, they sat in the living room, sipping Mrs. Hudson’s tea and drinking soup.

“Thank you,” Sherlock croaked, his voice still raw.

“Don’t,” John said, holding up his hand again. They had been through this nearly a dozen times, and Sherlock would continue to put John through it a dozen more.

“I would have died,” Sherlock whispered. Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the horrifying image of water overwhelming him. “I know how to swim, but I just…I don’t know what happened.”

“It was a moment of crisis,” John shrugged.

Sherlock gazed down at his tea and pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Did they let you keep that blanket, or did you steal it?” John teased, waving toward the trauma blanket.

With a smug grin, Sherlock replied:

“Apparently Lestrade keeps a stack of them in his car.”

III. Broken Bones

“Sherlock, don’t!”

The consulting detective stood with one foot on a shoddy-looking attic staircase and one on sturdy hardwood floors. They were on a case in an early 19th century home that was well past its heyday.

“The staircase clearly unstable,” John warned. “It looks like it hasn’t been climbed in decades! Possibly a century. The attic floor is probably in worse condition. We should just tell the client we didn’t find anything.”

With a groan of frustration, Sherlock protested by lifting his other foot so that he was standing completely on the staircase. As soon as his full weight was on the staircase he could admit, only to himself, that he could see John’s point, but he couldn’t let this case go.

“It’s a ghost-hunting case, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, his voice bouncing through the corridor. “I’m not giving up on a ghost-hunting case, it would be pathetic.”

“What’s pathetic is that you took the case in the first place!”

As he held a torch up to the darkened stairwell, he couldn’t help but to agree. Normally he would have laughed ghost-hunting cases out of the flat.

“It was the only case we’ve been offered in weeks,” he hissed. “The staircase is fine. It’s plenty steady to hold my weight, as long as you just stay right where you are.”

“Is that a shot at my weight?” John snapped.

Grinning, Sherlock turned toward his flatmate, who had actually put on nearly half stone in the past month.

“All those biscuits and telly sessions with Mrs. Hudson’s have to go somewhere.”

John scowled, and Sherlock turned back toward the opening to the attic. Carefully, he lifted one foot then another up the remaining nine steeps. The floorboards creaked and dipped with his weight, and Sherlock swallowed nervously, hoping he wouldn’t prove John right. As he stepped on the final step the entire staircase shook, and he grabbed onto the wall for support.

“You okay?” John called.

“Fine.”

His voice shook and he coughed as the air became thick with dust. At last he reached the opening to the attic, and after taking a deep breath he crawled through. As he flashed the torch around he could see the attic was mainly old boxes of junk. He crawled forward so that he was fully inside the attic, which was so narrow and the ceilings were so low he didn’t think he could stand up without hitting his head.

“See anything?” John’s voice echoed through the hollow room.

A rush of cool air shook him and Sherlock shuddered, remembering what the client said about cool gusts of air. He looked up, shining the torch toward where the air was coming from until he found the culprit.

“I solved it!” Sherlock whispered to himself. Then he called: “John, I know what’s been going on. It’s no ghost, it’s-aghhh!!!”

The floor suddenly gave away underneath him, sending him crashing to the main floor. His legs fell behind him at awkward angles, and he could have sworn he heard his ankle crack. Sherlock threw his arms over his face to protect himself as loose floorboards fell around him, and then-

He screamed. He screamed like a bloody girl, and as soon as he did he knew John would never let him hear the end of it. A skeleton suddenly fell on top of him, and John caught it before it too could crash to the floor.

“So you can catch the skeleton but not me?” Sherlock shot.

John laughed as he began clearing away the rubble. He placed his hands under Sherlock’s arms to help him stand, but as soon as he moved Sherlock let out a sharp cry of pain as his right ankle seemed to erupt in flames.

“John!” He grunted. “I think…I think my ankle’s broken.”

He tried to stay calm, but the more he tried to move his ankle the more his entire leg felt like stone.

“Stop trying to move it!” John snapped. He worked his way around Sherlock so that he could move the floorboards away from his legs. Sherlock breathed heavily as John began untying his shoe, and he had to bite his lip hard to keep from crying out as his shoe and sock were pulled away from his foot. The brush of the shoe against his crushed bone felt equivalent to someone slamming a brick against the side of his foot. John took a deep breath and pressed a cool hand against the bone. “Does that hurt?”

“Of course it bloody hurts!” Sherlock exclaimed. John pressed a little harder and looked up at him, silently asking again. He nodded, confirming that yes, it still hurt like hell.

“Try to move it slowly this time,” John instructed. Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he shook his head like a child. No way. “Careful, it’s alright.”

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock mustered all the energy he had left and tried to move his ankle. Fear flooded through him when he was met with so much resistance that it felt like his foot was trapped in a hole that wouldn’t let him loose.

“Okay, it might be broken,” John admitted. “It’s severely swollen. Do you think you can stand?”

“Might be broken?!” Sherlock cried. “John, it feels like all the bones in my body were just crushed! Call an ambulance.”

John snorted.

“I’m not calling you an ambulance over a sprained-possibly broken- ankle. Just stay calm, get your breath back and I’ll help you walk out of here.”

Sherlock let out a wine. There was no way he was moving anytime soon. Plus, there was a skeleton involved. John let out a sigh and took out his mobile.

“Greg?” John asked when the other line picked up. “Yeah, Sherlock’s hurt his ankle. How do you think? By not listening to me.”

He looked down at him and smirked, making Sherlock feel even worse.

No, he was never going to hear the end of this.

 

After what felt like hours at A&E, Sherlock came away with x-rays that confirmed his ankle was indeed broken and a cast that was already itching like hell.

“Wonderful,” John sighed as he read the patient instructions back at Baker Streets. “You’re off your foot for at least six weeks. You’re lucky you don’t need surgery!”

Sherlock admired the cast that was propped up on pillows. He was laying on the sofa- his home for the next month or two- and pulled his faithful trauma blanket further up his shoulder. The pain meds were beginning to kick in; he felt more numbness than anything, and he was finally coming back down to earth. He gazed after his flatmate, who paced the room as he read the doctor’s notes. With a red pen John scratched over certain instructions and made his own corrections, making Sherlock smile.

“You were amazing at the A&E,” Sherlock admitted. “Thank you for taking me.”

John’s cheeks turned rosy pink at the compliment, and he waved the compliment away.

“It was nothing,” John said. “You were just a bit panicked. Perfectly understandable.”

“You always know exactly what to do,” Sherlock sighed. “Where would I be without my doctor?”

“Lying in a bunch of rubble with a skeleton on top of you, that’s where,” John said. They both shared a grin. “If fixing a broken ankle impresses you, you should see me in surgery.”

Suddenly Sherlock remembered the pen Lestrade gave him after signing his cast and pulled it out of his pocket.

“Sign my cast?” He asked.

John’s eyes lit up, and he practically snatched the pen away. He scribbled a short message and sat back, letting Sherlock lean forward enough to read it.

“Sherlock, listen to me next time! -John.” He recited. He let out a hollow laugh, and John shook the pen at him.

“Behave, or I’ll add ‘xoxo’ to that!”

“You wouldn’t!”

Grinning like a madman, John simply tossed the pen back at him and left to make some more tea.

IV. Flu

Sherlock knew something was wrong when he realised he had actually slept in well past nine in the morning. His head was pounding, and he was just about to yell for John for another one of those migraine pills when he began shivering. Checking his mobile, he saw that it was still fairly warm out. It was still only early Autumn generally too soon for him to be thinking of coats, but he dug one out of the closet and grabbed his dressing gown for good measure.

Shivering, he shuffled his way into the living room. John was already dressed and his hair was damp from a shower, indicating he had plans to go out.

 _Please stay,_ Sherlock begged silently.

With a loud sigh, he threw himself onto the sofa, hoping it would draw John’s attention. But his flatmate simply remarked:

“You can’t be bored, it’s nearly ten.” John finally looked up and frowned. “Sherlock how are you dressed like that right now? It’s gorgeous out.”

“Cold,” he mumbled.

He almost grinned when he heard John’s chair shift against the floorboards. Sherlock sighed with relief as his head sank into the depth of the pillows and cushions, and John appeared above him. The doctor placed a hand on his forehead, and his eyes lit up, alarmed.

“Sherlock, you’re burning up!” John announced. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Cold.”

“You told me that already. How else do you feel?”

“Head hurts,” he muttered, pulling a blanket over his head. As he closed his eyes he took assessment of his symptoms. “Stomach hurts. Chest is tight. Hurts…everywhere. Johhnnn. Make it stop!”

As soon as he made the demand, what felt like all the food he ate the day before suddenly lurched up his throat. John rushed forward, performing the miracle of presenting a bowl for him to empty his stomach out into before he threw up all over the floor. His flatmate pulled his hair out of his eyes as he let out a round of deep coughs. At last he pulled away from the sick bowl with a groan, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

“Did you sleep okay last night?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

“Feel miserable.”

“I think you have the flu,” John sighed. Sherlock sniffled in response. “Runny nose?”

John passed him a box of tissue, and he nodded.

“Throat is scratchy,” Sherlock admitted. He suddenly sat up as he remembered what today was and why John was dressed up. “The case! John, we have to leave.”

“We solved that case yesterday, remember? We’re not going anywhere,” John said. “I’m making you tea and toast and going in search for cough medicine.”

His stomach flipped at the very thought of eating. Even the idea of hot tea against his burning throat sounded nauseating, though he knew it was what he needed.

“No,” he moaned. “Water. No tea. No toast. Please!”

John placed a hand on his forehead; the skin of his palm felt freezing against his warm face. Sherlock winced, and John offered a look of sympathy.

“Your eyes are watering,” John announced. “You’re on bed rest, at least until the fever goes down. I will get you that water- you need to stay hydrated.”

Sherlock nodded, but while he was grateful for John’s concern he couldn’t help the anxiety crawling inside him. Mycroft had the flu when they were kids and was in hospital for a week. In fact, it was part of the reason his brother got so paranoid every time Sherlock himself had so much as a cold.

“Maybe it’s just a cold,” he said, echoing his own thoughts.

“Sherlock, you’re shivering,” John said. He placed another blanket over him, but it had little effect. “Just get some rest, okay? I’ll bring you that water.”

He tried to sleep, but his efforts were met with surreal nightmares about being at the hospital with his mother. Mycroft was fourteen, but while he normally seemed older than his years he just looked so young and helpless lying there in a hospital bed, receiving breathing treatment. And he felt helpless too, sitting there with his mother, working on math to keep himself distracted.

Then suddenly the machines went haywire, his mother screamed for a nurse, and he was pushed out of the room…

“Sherlock!”

He jerked awake to John’s shouting. John was holding a thermometer as he shook him out of his nightmare, and Sherlock slowly became aware that the frantic breathing he was hearing was coming from his own lungs- which felt like they were on fire.

“John?” He coughed.

His voice sounded much scratchier than before. As he sat up his head felt heavy, and a wave of dizziness hit him so hard he immediately lie back down.

“You called out for your brother,” John explained. His friend looked so scared and confused that his own anxiety doubled. “Your temperature is nearly at 39- you’ve spiked a bit in the past few hours. How are you feeling?”

_Do you really need to ask?_

“Awful,” Sherlock admitted, sinking back into the sofa.

John presented him with a cool washcloth and began dabbing his forehead with it.

“My bose is all stuffy,” Sherlock groaned. “Throat…feels like stand.”

“Nose stuff, throat sandy,” John said. “Burning too, I imagine?”

Sherlock nodded. He gazed up at John, wondering how he could be so calm and collected. His eyes were hardened with concern, but his body was completely relaxed. Always the professional.

“We need to get your fever down,” John said. “Do you still feel sick to your stomach?”

_Now that you mention it…_

“Feels like detoxing,” Sherlock confessed.

He threw an arm over his face to shield his eyes from light. For years he thought the worst he ever felt in his life was the night he spent on his brother’s bathroom floor, vomiting nearly every half hour. Until today.

“Well here,” John said, presenting him with a freshly clean sick bin.

“You shouldn’t be fere,” Sherlock said, bursting out into a round of coughs. “Might get stick.”

“I’m not worried about me getting sick,” John said with a small smile.

“Don’t spacrofize yourself,” Sherlock said. He sneezed, and John patted his shoulder.

“If I get sick I get sick,” John shrugged. “It’s not a sacrifice. You’ll be fine in a few days. Here, water. Then you’re going back to sleep. Can I get you anything else?”

Sherlock almost said his mobile and his pillows from his bed, but he realised he was already lying against the pillows, and his mobile was on the floor beside him. He tried to reach for it, but his body felt so heavy with exhaustion that he couldn’t move. John picked up the phone for him instead.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

With every word he could feel the strength of his voice slipping away. In his mobile he found a text from his brother:

_John told me you have the flu. Get well soon. Plenty of rest and lots of liquids. Listen to John. Call me if you need anything else. Call mother. And listen to John._

A small smile crossed his chapped lips.

“John?” He croaked. His flatmate was by his side in an instant. He shoved his mobile into his hand. “Call by mum. Tell her I’m bine. Text Bycroft…stop worry.”

John looked away, trying to make sense of what he just said.

“Call your mother…text Mycroft?” He asked. Sherlock nodded. “I’ll make a deal. Take these, drink the entire glass of water and the entire mug of tea, go back to sleep, and I’ll talk to your family for you.”

Sherlock tried to smile again, but his face hurt too much.

“Tanks,” he said, and John let out a chuckle. “I wasn’t tis stuffed up tis morning.”

He downed the horrible-tasting cough syrup without complaint and chased it with the glass of water. He had to admit, the tea that followed was soothing to his grainy throat. It almost made him want to eat something, but his stomach flipped again, and he curled into the fetal position to keep the nausea at bay. A memory overcome so suddenly, so violently, that he gasped with shock and shook with anxiety- this _was_ like withdrawal. Oh god. It was so much like it. His whole body hurt, his head was spinning. In his mind he was in Mycroft’s old flat and the world felt like it was caving in.

“Sherlock!” John called softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine, it’s your fever. Give it time and it will break.”

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and tried to settle down beneath the blanket. He grabbed John’s hand before his flatmate could wonder away.

“Bycroft was hosbitalised with the flu when we were kifs,” he admitted. “It was bad. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” John replied, squeezing his hand. “It’s okay to have anxiety when you’re sick. You’ll be fine Sherlock, really.”

Five days, over a hundred cups of water, endless bowls of soup, and dozens of mugs of tea later his fever was gone and his fight with the flu was over. His head felt a little less pressurised, and his voice returned to normal.

 _Glad you are better,_ Mycroft texted, _I’m bringing you some wine straight from the Italian vineyards. Mother sends her love and says you can stop using John to phone her now._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He stared at his mobile for a moment before quickly typing out a question before he could second-guess himself.

_Remember that time you were in hospital with the flu?_

There was a brief pause, followed by a simple answer:

_How can I forget? Be well. And thank John for me._

“John!” He called, smiling as he heard his voice bounce through the flat.

John appeared by the sofa. His flatmate looked so exhausted from stress that Sherlock felt a bit guilty.

“Mycroft says thank you,” he said. Their eyes met, and they shared a laugh before Sherlock continued, speaking from the heart. “And so do I. Thank you, John. You deserve some rest yourself.”

A small smile crossed John’s face and he nodded, grateful.

“We both do,” John replied. “I’m glad you’re getting your strength back.”

“And I’m glad you’re my doctor.”


End file.
